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Spy felt uneasy.
The lazy morning they spent together was as perfect as it could get. Snuggled up close to fit in Sniper's small campervan bed together, Spy let herself relax and once again indulge in her desires. Feeling her skin against Sniper’s and staring into Sniper's piercing grey eyes as the other stared back, with love and want.
As expected, everything gone perfectly according to plan. The weeks of build up, of dropping subtle touches and hints, pulling out the most charming tricks in her endless bag of practiced tricks, and now Spy not only had Sniper exactly where she had wanted her, but also asking for more. It couldn't have gone better.
It was sublime. It was amazing. It was...
It was like watching her lover fall in love with someone else. A carefully crafted character, tweaked to perfection such that Sniper would not notice the difference in Spy’s behaviour while she carefully watched every move and response — it didn’t take that much (in fact, Sniper always seemed to distance herself whenever Spy laid on the charm a little too thick, so she quickly toned it down), but she still made sure to tempt the bushwomen with the her favourite activities, teasing the things Spy could (and did) offer, and took extra care in hiding the rough edges she would so often use to affront anyone else — well enough that Spy watched Sniper fall in love with someone from the outside. And it hurt— it hurt like running a sword through the both of them. But it was better than nothing, Spy told herself.
Beside her, having just gotten out of bed, Sniper started making the (special, high-quality) coffee.
Spy took the profiteroles out of her miniature cooler, carefully stacked them on a plate, then sprinkled some confectioners sugar over them. As Sniper took out mugs for the both of them, Spy placed the plate of pastries on the table, and took a seat.
She watched Sniper pour, admiring those arms, those hands. Hands just as capable as Spy imagined they would be, during their wonderful times together.
Looking up at Sniper with an honest smile, Spy gladly accepted the cup of coffee, her fingers brushing against the other women's. She took slow and steady sips, eyes following as Sniper also took a seat and grabbed a cream puff. A satisfaction within her — her plan having played out perfectly such that none of this tainted Sniper's comfort around Spy — and as long as Sniper didn’t figure it out, they could remain this way forever. Or at least until both their contracts end.
Spy relished the enjoyment evident on Sniper's face and smiled at herself for a job well done.
A job well done on a friend who had trusted her. A betrayal on a friend she loved.
She felt her throat tighten.
It was wrong, if she thought about what she was doing for more than two seconds, but what could she do now? Tell Sniper that she's been manipulated into this, into liking this, and reveal what a monster Spy has been the whole time? And that despite that, she still loved Sniper dearly and could no longer stand to lose her? Spy couldn't bring herself to say any of that outright. Yet, at the same time, the thoughts lurked in her buried conscience.
What a mess she had introduced into their simple arrangement.
“Say,” Spy started before she could stop herself, “Are you familiar with cantarella?”
“Canterella?” repeated Sniper, through a full mouth (and how stupid, that even this uncivilized behaviour of Sniper's made Spy's stomach squeeze), “Can't say I am. What's that?”
“It was something used by the Borgia family, in Italy, long ago,” Spy said, careful to keep her tone level and controlled, her expression neutral and relaxed. She couldn’t say how well she was succeeding. “A poison.” Spy took another sip of her coffee.
“Hm.” Sniper took another bite of the pastry.
“So, are you enjoying the profiteroles? I made them myself.”
She saw Sniper freeze. Guilt and shame threatened to well up in Spy. She turned back to her coffee, closed her eyes, and tried to focus on the aroma as she took another long, slow sip. But ever-vigilant, her mind instead counted the seconds of tense silence, and an eternity later, noted that Sniper had resumed chewing (as if Spy didn’t just admit to her terrible sins).
“What a coincidence. I poured poison in your coffee.”
She stopped drinking. Spy looked down at her coffee, then looked up at Sniper, whose face was as unreadable as ever. Stared at her lover as she let a mix of emotions slowly overflow and wash through her, before opening her mouth and choosing her words carefully, trying to keep her tone light and casual.
“You don't say.” Spy said, as she took another sip. A selfish part of Spy longed for a return of her feelings. Instead, Spy bitterly thought to herself, poisoned coffee was exactly what she deserved.
But, god, at this moment she’d accept anything from Sniper; let herself be poisoned with whatever Sniper thought fit. Her judgement recieved, Spy looked up to meet her lover's eyes and smiled. “This coffee is delicious.”
Sniper, too, was smiling. “And so is this pastry.”